


The Adventure Of The Cardboard Box (1882)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [34]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Cartesian Co-ordinates, Destiel - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Theft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 04:54:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10632636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Holmes tracks down some missing jewels using the power of mathematics, and Watson has a (paid) month off work.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nirelian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nirelian/gifts).



“You are developing quite a writing style, Watson.”

I looked up in surprise. It was the late summer of eighteen hundred and eighty-two, and the final installment of the Musgrave case had just been published in the “Strand” magazine. The reception this time round had been even more positive, and they had requested a further story from me, even going so far as to say I could supply it as and when I was ready. I had tentatively ventured to Holmes that I might relate the 'preternatural' events around the Wriothesley murder and he had agreed, though subject as before to his viewing the finished writings before they were dispatched.

“How so?” I asked.

“The way you tease your poor readers, mentioning other cases we have undertaken together without going into details”, he grinned. “In truth, it is a literary Dance of the Seven Veils!”

“Thank you”, I said. “Writing is hard, let alone finding the time to fit it all in.”

Holmes coughed, and I inwardly cringed. That awkward look of his always presaged some remark that he knew was going to make me uncomfortable. I prepared for the worst.

“You will probably say no”, he began slowly, “but my father would really like to apologize for the insinuations that he made against your character.”

“He spied on you”, I countered. “That was worse. And besides, I really enjoyed the extra time that we had in Montgomeryshire at the start of the year.”.

“One must expect some things from family”, he said dismissively. “But he would like that apology to take the form of paying for someone to do your work for a whole month, so you can take a paid holiday.”

I was surprised at the gesture, and I could see from the wary look on my friend's face that he fully expected me to refuse. I could see why; I was a proud man, and I knew (although he never offered) that if I ever faced any real financial difficulties, Holmes would insist on helping me out. I think that he had been pleasantly surprised when I had accepted his generous birthday present of the thick coat that had kept me warm all winter. And his father had also done a lot for me already, especially after my parents' deaths. Although of course, I had my pride.

But pride be damned, no way was I going to turn down four weeks of paid holiday!

“Why not?” I said, to his evident surprise. “Who knows – these stories may end up making you so famous that I do not need to work any more!”

We both laughed, unaware at the time neither of how true those words would turn out to be, nor of the suffering that our friendship – and what it would become - would put me through before I reached it. And the first of those sufferings were closer than either of us then knew.

+~+~+

I had by this time formed the opinion that Holmes was not overly fond of the Metropolitan Police Service. Although he held our friend Sergeant Henriksen in high esteem (higher than was warranted, in my opinion; the man's greatest talent, cake-spotting apart, seemed to be getting someone else to do his work for him so that he could take the credit!), Holmes viewed most of the rest of the capital's constabulary with toleration bordering on disdain. So I was surprised to return home one day and find in attendance a constable that I had not seen before, and judging from the relaxed body language of my friend, someone Holmes did actually hold some regard for. 

“This is Constable Franklin Devereux, from the Baker Street station”, he explained. “He has been involved in a most interesting case today, and on his way home he thought he would bring it to my attention.”

I was surprised, not least because I could not imagine the constable's superiors being happy about his disclosing information to us. I suspected that Sergeant Henriksen's bosses only tolerated his doing it because of the high success rate that resulted, which they must have guessed was due partly it not mostly to Holmes' help. That and the fact that his immediate superior, Inspector Macdonald, loathed the entire human race equally, and frankly did not care where his successes came from. My friend saw my confusion, and smiled.

“The story will be all over the evening papers in a few hours”, he explained, pre-empting my concerns, “so there is no question of secrecy. The constable was kind enough to delay telling me the events of today until your return, so if you would make yourself comfortable, then he can begin.”

+~+~+

Constable Devereux was, I thought to myself, quite old to be merely a junior officer of the law.

“The constable worked in a bank until three years ago”, Holmes said, again showing the somewhat uncanny (and more than somewhat irritating) ability to read my mind. “I met him there through my inquiries into a minor case, and recommended him to Henriksen for a position at his station.”

“And it is that bank that has brought me here today”, our visitor explained, taking the tea Holmes handed to him (evidently he did not share Henriksen's ability to always arrive on baking days, for there was no cake). “Thank you, sir. The bank in question is Pettigrew's, doctor, a small, private and somewhat exclusive bank in Duncannon Street, not far from Trafalgar Square.”

“Very exclusive”, Holmes amended. “They have some of the richest people in London as their clients.”

“Indeed”, the constable sighed. “It was my time there that resulted in me being drafted today, although unfortunately to little avail.”

“Drafted?” I inquired. The constable leant forward.

“The bank recently gained a number of new clients, and as such, decided to extend its safe-room”, he said. “It was, of course, a time of great anxiety for the bank owners, my former employers. Mainly to alleviate customer concerns, they asked to hire a policeman for the duration of the work. My name was requested, and I was posted there during opening hours. There are also two of the bank's own employees who act as guards, but they do not wear any official uniform, so the bank thought that a uniformed presence would reassure their customers.”

(I might say that I rather disapproved of our capital's constabulary whoring itself out in this way, but I supposed that it kept down the taxes that paid for them).

“And outside of those hours?” Holmes asked.

“Two watchmen patrol the area, with a guard-dog each”, the constable answered. “They always arrive some time before the last customers depart, so word had gotten round that every care is being taken. The bank always puts its customers first.”

“That seems comprehensive enough”, I said.

“So to the events of last night”, the constable continued, checking his notebook. “The bank closed at five o'clock, and I left at twenty past. The two watchmen, Mr. Mark Darby and Mr. Theobald Molyneux, were of course already there, having arrived fifteen minutes before closing; they live near to each other, and catch a 'bus in. At approximately seven o'clock they heard a muffled explosion, and hurried down to the safe-room. I should explain at this point that, even with their keys, there is a complex security system that renders it impossible to access the room in under three minutes, so it was at least four after the explosion when they finally entered. They found a hole had been cut through the wall connecting to the basement next door, and several safe-boxes had been forced open.”

“Is there a list of what was taken?” Holmes asked. To my surprise, the constable put his head in his hands.

“That's the worst thing!” he said. “They knew what they were after all right. Lady Meryton's diamonds, worth at least a quarter of a million!”

I gasped, for the Meryton Diamonds were amongst the most famous jewels in the country. As well as some loose gems, the main part was a huge double necklace which the beautiful Lady Meryton wore to all social occasions. The loss would be devastating for her, let alone what it would do to the bank.”

“And there is no clue as to who stole them?” I asked.

“Oh, we have the man already!”

We both looked at him in surprise.

“Then why are you here, constable?” Holmes asked.

“Because in the brief time that it took us to track Mr. Michael Bullen down, he got rid of the diamonds somewhere, and we have no idea where!” the constable groaned. “And the evidence we do have against him is paper-thin. We can hold him for a week before charging him, but if we have to let him go, we cannot watch him twenty-four hours a day on the off-chance that he leads us to them.”

Holmes thought for a moment.

“If he is charged and goes to jail”, he said, “is there anyone outside that he might trust with the location of the gems?” 

“He has two sons”, the constable said. “The eldest, Philip, is twenty; a chip off the old block, and the two do not get on. I believe he once tried to swindle his father out of the proceeds of one of his robberies. Also, he is up in Scotland at the moment, although we are waiting for the Kincardineshire Constabulary to confirm that. There is however a younger son, Paul, just turned eighteen and who lives over in Stepney. I asked for someone there to go and check him out; they sent back to say that he is away visiting a friend in Essex, but is due back tomorrow afternoon. Their mother, Mrs. Bullen, died six years ago.”

“Did the local constable check his house at all?”

“I don't think so”, Devereux said. “Why do you ask?”

“Because”, Holmes said simply, “it is entirely possible that Mr. Bullen may have contrived to send his younger son directions.”

The constable groaned. 

“Why did I not think of that?” he asked.

“I suggest that you get someone to call round there first thing tomorrow”, Holmes said. “I would say to go yourself, but I know how territorial some forces can be over such matters. If you could bring any findings to us, perhaps I might be able to help you further.”

+~+~+

As I mentioned some little time back, our estimable landlady, the mercifully un-fragrant Miss Letita Hellingly, was being courted by a fellow doctor of mine, one Mr. Eric Frodsham. He was an amiable enough fellow, I thought, although we saw little of him as a rule. A couple of hours before Constable Devereux was due to call however, he knocked at our door and asked if we might talk.

“This is damnably awkward”, he said, blushing somewhat, “so I am going to come right out and say it. I love dear Letty, but.... well, I think all three of us here know that she is wont to listen at keyholes probably more than is warranted.”

And the Pope is inclined to be Catholic, I thought snidely, more than is warranted. Holmes shot me an annoyed look, and I wondered yet again if I really was that transparent.

Was that a nod? It was, damnation!

“You know, gentlemen, that Miss Belmont has moved out of Room One prior to her forthcoming marriage”, Dr. Frodsham said. “Letty was cleaning the room before the new client moves in, and she, ahem, chanced to overhear a conversation from the adjoining room.”

Chanced to hear by placing a glass against the wall and listening eagerly, I thought. I got a second warning look. He surely could not....

Damnation, that was a nod!

“She would not have said anything”, the doctor said, mercifully not noting my abstraction, “but, Mr. Holmes, she chanced to hear your good name mentioned. That apart, she was only sure that both those talking were gentlemen.”

“It could be some people who have read about your cases”, I ventured. Holmes shook his head.

“We both checked to make sure that all references to even this street were changed”, he said. “Unless they went around every single road within reach of Harley Street, they would not find me by chance. No, this needs investigating. Thank you very much, Doctor Frodsham. If our estimable landlady, ahem, 'overhears' any more interesting conversations, please do not hesitate to let us know.”

The doctor blushed, and made his exit.

+~+~+

I wondered if Holmes might head off to check this strange near neighbour, but apparently he wanted to wait for Constable Devereux. It was a good thing that he did, for the man arrived less than half an hour later, bearing a large, wrapped package.

“This was attempted to be delivered to the son yesterday evening”, he said. “The postman took it back to the office. I hate the Post Office; getting a parcel off of those people is harder than breaking into the bloody Tower!”

He unwrapped the parcel. It was an ordinary-looking cardboard box, folded but not sealed shut. And there was writing on the four sides.

“A fifty one and a zero”, I read on the first side, turning it round. “What? Thirty minutes and thirty-two seconds.”

I looked up at Holmes in confusion, but he just smiled knowingly at me.

“Seven minutes and thirty-seven seconds”, I read from the third side. “And to finish....”

“The letter 'N', and either an 'E' or a 'W'”, Holmes said. “Most probably a 'W'.”

He was looking away from me as he spoke. Devereux and I both stared at him in confoundment.

“How could you know that?” I asked.

“Was there anything inside the box?” Holmes asked. The constable grinned.

“Oh yes”, he said. “A sealed box of iced biscuits, and a thank-you letter.”

“Do you have the letter?” Holmes asked.

The constable nodded, and handed it to him. He read it quickly, then passed it onto me:

'Dear Bully,  
Thanks for everything you did; you know how much I hate hospitals. Mrs. Whitbury-Smith is fine now, and should be out in a week. Her sister May baked these as a thank-you.  
I hope it all worked out well for you in Essex.  
Ben'.

“Was there anything odd about the biscuits?” I asked, grasping for something in this case.

“Nothing out of the ordinary, as far as the tests we've done so far”, the constable said. “There is only one Whitbury-Smith living in London, a single man who has not long moved to the area. His mother lives in Ireland, and does not seem to have ever visited the capital. There was also a girl whose family all emigrated to somewhere in India, but she married when they left and has been a Purslow for the past three years.”

“How many biscuits did you eat?” Holmes inquired archly. Though judging from the constable's red face, not incorrectly.

“The lads at the station out them by for evidence”, he muttered.

“Do you know what time the recipient of these items is due back?” Holmes asked, seemingly taking pity on our visitor.

“His neighbour said he always returns off the four-thirty train, and walks from the station”, the constable said. “He gets home just before five.”

“It is imperative that these be waiting for him, and that he be aware that his father is being held”, Holmes said firmly. “Constable, what way did Bullen turn when he left the bank?”

The policeman looked confused at the question, but answered readily enough.

“Right, towards the Square, sir”, he said. 

“And he was being followed by the time he reached his home. Where is that, by the way?”

“Tallis Street, in Blackfriars, sir, just over a mile away. We got him coming up to his house.”

“So there were no sightings of him until then?”

The constable looked at him curiously.

“What are you driving at, sir?” he asked.

“Is Paul Bullen a smart young man?” Holmes asked, ignoring the question.

“He goes to college, sir.”

“Does he have a gun?”

“Sir?” The constable looked positively alarmed at the question.

“Does he have a gun?” Holmes repeated patiently.

“I believe that he does, sir.”

“Then I am afraid we will need as many armed officers as your station can stretch to, although God willing, it will only be for one night.”

“I do not....”

“You wish to re-acquire the Meryton diamonds?” Holmes asked archly.

“Sir!”

The detective sighed, and reached for a piece of paper, upon which he scrawled a few lines of writing. I only hoped the constable would be able to read it; Holmes' chicken scrawl made all those jokes about the average doctor's handwriting superfluous.

“I believe that the establishment closes at nine”, Holmes said. “I expect the attempt to be made soon after.”

“But surely you would want to be there?” the detective asked.

Holmes smiled.

“This is very much your call, Devereux”, he said gently. “A successful case here could earn you the promotion that you deserve. I am sure that even if he adds this to his canon, the good doctor will be able to word it in such a way to make it look as if we merely guided you in your hunt.”

“Of course I would”, I put in. The constable blushed.

“The doctor and I will be waiting outside the place anyway”, Holmes said airily. “Just in case.”

Outside where, I wondered, but the constable was taking his leave, presumably to hurry off and put Holmes' plans into action.

+~+~+

We had the best part of a day until our vigil, and once the constable had gone Holmes said he wished to make some inquiries about our curious neighbour. I guessed that he might not want me with him in this, and for once he did not ask me along.

He arrived back a little before five, and was visibly upset. I sent down at once for coffee and cakes, and suggested a bath before we went out that evening. By the time he had set it up, Miss Hellingly had delivered his caffeine fix, and yet again I winced as he drank the scalding hot liquid down straight off. I hoped that he would not lock the bathroom door as I was quite worried about him, but fortunately he did not soak for long, and was soon back with me. Although he looked visibly annoyed.

“Do you wish to tell me about it?” I ventured. He sighed unhappily.

“I must thank our nosy landlady for her efforts”, he smiled ruefully. “The man himself, Penton Morris, is a professional watcher, paid to monitor a target but no more. In this case, paid by my brother Mycroft.”

I scowled.

“I thought that your father was going to back off?” I asked, trying not to sound cross.

“He has”, Holmes said, “but Mycroft is a law unto himself. He has never got over the fact that the estate is to be split between all the children, rather than pass whole to him. If he can 'peel off' one or two rivals by finding out some damaging information about them, then he will.”

“The bastard!” I said fervently. “We have nothing to hide.”

He smiled thankfully at me.

+~+~+

We could hear Big Ben striking a quarter past nine down Whitehall, as we stood behind a pillar at the north-eastern corner of Trafalgar Square. The National Gallery was long closed down, and the little church of St. Martin's-in-the-Fields, named from a time long ago when this area had been fields beyond the City walls, had just been locked up for the night. I uttered another prayer of thanks for the new coat which was keeping me toasty-warm.

“I still have no idea why we are here”, I complained, “except we are not that far from where the robbery took place.”

Holmes chuckled.

“Perhaps I am being a little unfair”, he admitted. “I will extend a clue to you. The note I received from the constable an hour ago confirmed what I had suspected, namely that young Bullen is only attending college part-time whilst working at the offices of the Ordnance Survey.”

“The government map-makers”, I said. “How does that help me figure it out?”

“Remember what was written on the outside of the cardboard box?” Holmes asked. “Perhaps it is an unfair question”, he quickly went on, “because the information was split in such a way that only someone like the man who will shortly be visiting the church over there would know.”

“Or a smart consulting detective”, I said dryly.

“Very true”, he said immodestly. I resisted the urge to swat at him.

“How do you know he will be going there?” I asked.

“Because if you re-arrange the figures on the box, you get two sets of Cartesian co-ordinates”, Holmes explained. “Fifty-one degrees, thirty minutes and thirty-two seconds north, and zero degrees, seven minutes and thirty-seven seconds west.”

I stared at him, stunned.

“And you just happened to know that those were the co-ordinates of the church?” I asked incredulously.

“Of course not”, he said, “but from the latitude, I knew that it had to be somewhere in central London, if not the exact centre. Also, it is a common fact that one angular minute is approximately half a mile of distance, which meant the place had to be about three and a half miles west of Greenwich. That, by the way, was how I knew the letter you were looking at would be a 'W', otherwise the resultant co-ordinates would be somewhere down in Kent, possibly even in the Thames itself. It is probably that Bullen Senior took this route home, planning to lose any pursuit in the crowds. He hid the diamonds in the churchyard, thinking to either retrieve them later, or for his son to do it for him if he ended up inside. The biscuits and box were all arranged beforehand.”

“Ah”, I pointed out, “but the churchyard is still large. How would the boy know where to look?”

“Because of the contents of the box”, Holmes said calmly.

Our conversation was interrupted by the sound of a scuffle, almost immediately followed by three policemen emerging out of the side-gate dragging a very reluctant fourth man with them. A fifth man followed them, but turned and came across to us. It was Constable Devereux.

“You were right, Mr. Holmes sir!” he smiled. “Exactly where you said they'd be. We put some fakes in there earlier, and he went straight to the grave to get them. Thank the Lord he didn't bring his gun.”

“Fortunate for him”, Holmes smiled.

“So how did you know where he hid the diamonds?” I pressed. “Was it something in the letter?”

“Yes”, my friend said. “The only unusual thing in that letter was the name, Whitbury-Smith. Mr. Michael Bullen chose that gravestone because the name was, he hoped, unique, then communicated it to his son who, correctly deciphering the messages on and inside the box, came to retrieve his father's ill-gotten gains.”

“Lady Meryton is going to be over the moon!” Devereux grinned. He looked at Holmes uncertainly. “Are you sure that you do not wish to get the credit....?”

“Absolutely sure”, Holmes said firmly. “I expect that you have a lot of paperwork to complete at the station, now that both Bullens will be being charged. Come, Watson. Let us find a cab to take us to the safety of our humble abode.”

We bade farewell to the constable, and left Nelson to his silent watch.

+~+~+

Our next adventure together would bring a certain famous address in Baker Street into our lives, and show, not for the last time, that people with power cannot be trusted.


End file.
